


All is a fine mess

by Skyepilot



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Dorks in Love, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Marta is the protagonist of Knives Out, Ransom is scum, Selfless People in Love, Some Plot, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:39:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26072791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/pseuds/Skyepilot
Summary: Benoit and Marta discover that their first case together is not so finished after all.
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Marta Cabrera
Comments: 4
Kudos: 60





	All is a fine mess

**Author's Note:**

> Just a drabble about these two who were wonderfully supportive, charming, and kind together and deserve an extra happy ending and for Marta to be in any Knives Out sequels as Benoit's partner.

“I've been reading more of Harlan's books,” she says quickly, direct. “And his notes. You should see them! Pages, and pages...”

“Of how to get away with murder?” he finishes for her, standing at the apartment window framed by its heavy chenille drapes, looking out onto the poorly lit street and straining his neck to get the crick out of it.

“Yes,” she replies over the phone. He can make out the nod in his mind, he realizes and is charmed by the thought.

“I hope you're not trying to improve your prospects.”

“No,” she says, her voice wearing a smile. “And, I-I never thanked you enough for...”

“You thanked me profusely,” he reminds her as she goes quiet. “But I am always happy to reminisce on the last public appearance of one Hugh Ransom Drysdale.”

The last time he saw Marta Cabrera in the flesh.

Not just for the enjoyment of attending his former predatory patron's sentencing, an event to which he enthusiastically contributed. But to make sure Marta had all the facts delivered first-hand, rather than from the vultures both local and afar who swooped down into its bloody theatrics, determined to pick all the carcasses clean of details and reimagine them as entertainment for the masses.

They had coffee on her balcony together. The house seeming somewhat brighter now with the presence of Marta and her mother and sister. Like something had gone right in the world and the truth had not merely been outed, but it had arrived shining and victorious. The sun had been out too, he seemed to recall.

“I said I didn't thank you _enough_ ,” she reminded him.

“But that's not the reason that you reached out to me today, is it Ms. Cabrera?” he asks her curiously.

“No,” she says, like punctuation. Then excitedly. “I've been following your case and I thought you could use some help.”

“I see,” he says, thinking this through, not bruised in the slightest, but with anticipation, perhaps. The possibility of being _surprised_ again.

“Am I right, then, in my suspicion that it lines up quite auspiciously with one of Harlan's plots?”

  
“It does,” she tells him immediately, then hesitates.

“Look. I know you are a really great detective. But you missed one small detail.”

***

He is working out of a small furnished apartment. Well-appointed, but the building's dedication to its historical charm clearly communicates it will overpower any modern ideas of comfort.

Still, it might very well be haunted as its inhabitants claim from his sleepless observations, being woken in the later hours for the past several nights. His accused client charged with murder in this very building notwithstanding.

But he must excuse distractions, he tells himself, straightening his tie in the bathroom mirror. Marta will be here at any moment, and he hasn't even started the tea.

She insisted on driving, of course. He suspects that she wishes to exchange the Thrombey-induced miasma that still hovers for some fresh air and change of scene.

And perhaps, she has acquired a taste for adventure as of late. Marta has a fierceness in her that is both captivating and elusive. To the point that he could probably be personally capable of something quite foolish if asked.

Marta, however, would make no such imposition.

He puts on the kettle and turns on the stove as he hears a knock at the door.

“Hello!” she greets him cheerfully, stomping the snow off her shoes as he opens the door and guides her inside.

She looks around carefully like she is trying to work out a puzzle, or a means of escape, and sets her large handbag on the small table and pulls out a laptop.

“Shall we get to it?” she asks him in a very professional tone of voice.

“I was going to offer you some tea first, Watson,” he says welcoming and cheerful. “You offend my manners.”

“Okay,” she says, finishing her inspection of the room and then pulling out the nearest chair, about to sit before he moves towards her, his hand out.

“Your coat?” he asks her, gesturing at it, as she starts to stand back up quickly, letting him help her out of its bulk and noticing her shake off the rest of the chill from the winter air outside.

“Thank you,” she says with a small smile, smoothing down her over-sized sweater, remaining standing while he hangs the coat up in the antique wardrobe and goes to turn off the stove as the tea kettle goes off.

“I'm going to sit, okay?” she asks him, her voice slightly raised, leaning a little so she can see into the kitchen.

“Yes, of course,” he waves to her, pouring the hot water over the tea bags in their cups and then placing it all neatly on the round tin tray as he joins her.

He manages the tiny frustration at how uneven this meeting is going already, perhaps he should've done more to put her at ease?

She already has her laptop open and has pulled up an image, frozen on the screen. One he is familiar with conjured forth by the media vultures who have followed him here to Maryland.

“Do you see it?” she asks him, looking at the screen of his very polished and pearl-adorned client being interviewed by an affiliate news station.

“Do you take sugar or milk?” he asks her, his attention divided and trying to regain some sense of decorum.

“Whatever you're having,” she says, then zooms in even closer on the screen. “What about now?”

He places her cup and saucer in front of her, then settles into his chair, crossing his legs and peering closely at the screen. He can feel her eyes on him, studying him, expectant.

She waits until he takes a first sip of the tea before she continues.

“ _A Burning Oculus_ ,” she tells him, pauses. “Harlan's book.”

“I myself have not had the pleasure of turning its pages,” he admits, not without sarcasm. He sees the title there, a slight blur on the bookshelf. “But we know that my employer has.”

“You _are_ a great detective,” she assures him kindly. “But maybe, just terrible at choosing your clients?”

“Hmm,” he agrees, watching her take a sip of the tea and make an approving noise, as he fidgets with the teaspoon on the table. “Then may I humbly request that you fill me in on every detail? Spare nothing.”

“That might take some time, so...I brought sandwiches,” she tells him, reaching back into her bag. “I skipped breakfast and besides, I noticed before that you never seemed to eat when you're working. Do you eat when you're not?”

“Is that chastisement or challenge?” he chuckles, taking the paper-wrapped sandwich from her.

“Commiserating,” she tells him, opening the sandwich and digging in. “When I was busy studying at nursing school, I would forget to eat sometimes, too.”

“You are both an excellent nurse, Marta,” he says. “And a keen practitioner of the art of empathy.”

“Not as keen,” she tells him, swallowing.”At reading famous detectives.”

“I am only now realizing that I, too, was the subject of an investigation,” he answers, letting himself smile a little as he re-imagines past moments with this added layer of context.

“Your eyes gave you away,” she tells him, after a moment, then stares down at the food in her hands.

He enjoys the sandwich, but the quietly fierce company even more.

***

“But why did she hire you, of all people, immediately after the case with Harlan?”

“Presuming that I would rush to help another damsel in distress,” he shakes his head. “The 'Gentleman Detective',” he adds with a frustrated sigh, tugging a blade of grass peeking through the sand and pulling the wool blanket more tightly around Marta.

She has tucked her feet up underneath her below the blanket as the salty wind blows strands of her hair loose around her face and she shivers. He hopes it's not from shock, but he is not entirely certain of himself at the moment.

“You still miss him,” he says, after watching her glance out towards the waves to avoid his eyes. “Not a loss I imagine you've had time to process.”

“No. Not really,” she says with a thin, quivering smile. “Now he's everywhere, but gone. I thought that he just needed a friend. But I guess I did, too.”

“A new discovery that we seem to share. Among other things,” he remarks carefully, as she looks at them together under the blanket, then up at him and stares with that searching gaze of hers. “And I do swear on my godmother's good name, you certainly were no damsel in distress.”

“So, what's her name?” she asks, with a look of interest.

“Marianne.”

“Mmm. So...not a damsel in distress?” She asks in a way that makes him feel like she might want him to continue.

“No. Even as they drew you into their world, their games, no matter how increasingly malevolent, you remained true. Putting your own life, and those you love, at risk. For which I owe you an enormous debt, even in this very moment.”

“I-I really just came here to help you solve this case,” she answers timidly, troubled, as he meets her gaze. “There were no other motives.”

“'Motives',” he repeats, holding on to the word, questioning it. “Except your newly discovered fascination for solving murders.”

It gets too quiet, even for Marta, and he looks over at her to see her carefully, deliberately swallow.

“Oh, Marta!” he exclaims, pained. “We have defied death together, been bosom companions for the last forty-eight hours-”

“Bosom, _what_?” she asks him, eyebrows raised, and tosses off the blanket, revealing fingers clutching at her turning stomach.

“In sleuthing, nothing more,” he quickly assures her with a wave of his hand. Although, that's not the truth considering they both nearly escaped having their rental car run off into the ocean by his employer with serial tendencies mere moments ago.

“I'm so sorry,” she squeaks out and then stands, brushing off her jeans. “I just got all mixed up, after the case. And, sometimes, I act too quickly-”

“Flight or flight,” he agrees with her, standing too and pulling up his suspenders, following after her towards the banged-up rental car. “Marta, for your own safety, you must go-”

“Go?” she stops and spins back around to him, her eyes wide for a moment, lowering her hand from her mouth. “ _Yes_.”

Time slows down infinitesimally, or so he wishes, as she takes a step between them, closing his following distance, and places her hands on his chest so slowly and lightly.

He has probably already missed several important details by the time her lips touch his for just a moment. The whisper of a 'goodbye'.

He blinks and hears her drive away up the highway in the rental car.

Then time resumes its dreadful tempo.

***

All is a fine mess.

Although Marta did, in fact, come back for him in the rental car, because she is Marta.

And because she is Marta, she did not stay to see the case through, lest it endangers him further, he presumes.

He has made sure, though, that she received every bit of credit that is due for discovering, sadly, that the killer was indeed his patron once again.

While it appears that Marta has guided another of his cases to successful closure, it also appears that a reporter had a picture taken of them sleuthing about town and plastered it everywhere.

No fewer than three Thrombeys have been interviewed already, declaring this proof of a conspiracy to secure their family fortune and demanding an investigation.

His newly arrested client intends to use this to make her own claims about his fitness as an investigator, with his connection to Marta now dragging her into the center of this storm.

Choosing to stage a murder in the style of a Harlan Thrombey novel, following the murder investigation of that very author? 

And while he can't say it was executed nearly as cleverly as Harlan's last scheme, he must admit that it plays right into their hands, swooping down on Marta like the carrion feeders they are.

Even with the newly arrived help of lawyers, the court of public opinion still exists. The very thing he was trying to avoid.

But he ignored all of that the moment Marta offered a reason to fit into his life again, surely with quite a compelling one that perhaps wrong-footed him.

He can't, however, ignore the facts as they have presented themselves.

The reporters are already on him as he reaches the front gate, pressing against the windows of his car, cameras attuned. The option of turning back in his mind is easily dismissed, for he has a way of accepting the fullness of truth once it is found.

The gates open and he drives through to the main house, pulling up in the driveway, greeting the dogs as they run up to him.

“It was just nonsense,” she says, preemptively opening the door. “The thought that someone like you might need-”

“Marta, I will have this conversation through a crack in the door, if you like,” he answers. “However, might it be easier if we-”

“I'm sorry, of course,” she says, stepping outside and closing the door softly behind her, wrapped in a thick robe, feet adorned with slippers. “For what happened at the beach, for-”

“I have been careless,” he confesses to her. “As you can see,” he adds, gathering his words. “I am not famous merely for solving cases, but also for the sensation that springs up around them. It's like its own weather pattern, blowin' up a storm.”

“Yes,” she nods at him. “I understand now, why you were eager to move on to the next case.”

“Ah,” he says, sensing that this is an opening to explain himself more fully. “And yet, I didn't finish this one. Not at all.”

It takes a moment for her to meet his eyes, and he hopes for the first time that they do, indeed, give him away.

“The doughnut-shaped hole in the Gentleman Detective?” she declares, which he confirms with a nod. “But my only question is: how did she know?”

“My admiration for you was never exactly a closely held secret,” he professes. “Nor can I agree to express regret for what happened at the beach, or dismiss it merely as excitement overwhelming judgment. When I take into account my sleepless nights, an inability to perceive a secondary opportunity at revenge by the Thrombeys, and an easy accomplice with the method already written for them. Designed to discredit us both, and to steal back what was freely given-”

“We must make them miserable,” she says reflectively, and with determination, sets her jaw, a twinkle in her eye.

It strikes him as so true, he's stunned for a brief moment, then admiring...no _inspired_. “Marta, that might be the most wonderfully diabolical thing I have ever heard you say.”

“Should we try to make them even _more_ miserable?” she asks him, daringly, as her still warm fingers reach out from beyond her robe to make contact with his wrist where his glove leaves a small patch of exposed skin.

“ _Unfailingly_ miserable.”

The words drop from his lips just before she catches them, the memory of the color of her eyes as they fall closed hovering at the edge of his thoughts.

The cold is dismissed altogether until he feels her shiver a little in his arms, and then he checks, but she doesn't look cold at all when he stares down at her flushed face.

He begins to wonder, then, at the true origin of the shiver. A truth he will dutifully commit himself to uncover if she'll allow.

“Benoit. Stay for dinner?” she asks, taking a step backward towards the front door, hand outstretched to him.

“I would be delighted.”


End file.
